


keep the lovelight glowing

by vaudelin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, DeanCas Sweetheart 2018, Diners, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: “It’s unusual to see a diner so festive,” Cas says once they’re seated, his gaze swaying around the dimly-lit room.Dean shrugs. “These kinds of places live and die on the fifties vibe. It’s practically law they have checkerboard floors.”Though he’s staring at his screen, Dean catches Cas’ head tilt in his peripheral. “That isn’t—the streamers, Dean. The balloons.” His hand comes up from the table, curving toward the aisle.And that… Dean shakes his head, like he’s imagining it. He glares at his phone, swipes to the calendar just to be sure.





	keep the lovelight glowing

They’re three hours past check-in and Sam still isn’t answering his cell. Dean’s antsy and anxious waiting for the update, so when Cas mentions dinner at an all-night diner down the road Dean jumps on the suggestion, jamming his thumbs across his screen in a last-ditch dial before pocketing his phone for good.

The intersection to the diner yields in a slushy dip through dirt, and Dean just _knows_ that he’ll have to wash Baby when they get back to the bunker—midwest winters are awful for keeping her clean, and this mid-February freeze isn’t doing its damn job keeping the mud down. He parks beneath the neon sign advertising _Danette’s_ in flickering red lines, the only spot still available in the lot, to his dismay—the park jobs are bad enough that he wishes he could keep Baby quarantined for safety’s sake. But they’re here, and Dean’s hungry, and Cas is staring optimistically out at the diner, so Dean noses them through the rows, turns the key and steps out into the snow.

There’s not much of a line inside, this time of night, but the diner is as full as the parking lot led him to suspect. Nearly all the booths are packed with pairs, winter coats hanging like fat pelts from the racks along the aisle, and even the service counter sits startlingly full. It adds to the promise that they’ll be better served here than by a drive-thru chain, so Dean makes peace with the place and shucks his jacket. The hostess greets them, and Dean fidgets with his phone as soon as Cas’ back is turned, unable to contain himself, bowing over another text attempting to push the imperative of his messages to Sam beyond severe.

“It’s unusual to see a diner so festive,” Cas says once they’re seated, his gaze swaying around the dimly-lit room.

Dean shrugs. “These kinds of places live and die on the fifties vibe. It’s practically law they have checkerboard floors.”

Though he’s staring at his screen, Dean catches Cas’ head tilt in his peripheral. “That isn’t—the streamers, Dean. The balloons.” His hand comes up from the table, curving toward the aisle.

And that… That makes Dean look up, finally, frowning at something besides Sam’s tardiness. He glances around and, sure enough, the service counter is decked out in long curling ribbons of pink and white, while the same hang above each window, pinned up in lazy arcs by red and pink balloon bouquets.

Dean shakes his head, like he’s imagining it. He glares at his phone, swipes to the calendar just to be sure.

But no, turns out Dean’s too busy trying to reach Sam to pay attention to his surroundings, and by time he places the paper hearts and cherubs and realizes what day it is, it’s too late for them to leave without making a minor scene. At least, that’s what Dean tells himself when he’s still sitting there after the real sweat starts setting in, mind racing over the etiquette of a _pre_ -dine and dash, fingers caught tearing up the placemat, staring down at the pieces instead of staring back at Cas.

Just like that, Valentine’s catches him in its heinous jaws. Their lives hardly account for a yearly schedule, but Dean must have had too long a bout of ignoring the day altogether to have expected such good fortune to continue. Yet of all the holidays that could have happened to him, it’s unfair that this day should be the one to hit. Hell, Dean’s not even sure they celebrated his birthday this year.

“You didn’t know?” Cas asks, sounding just shy of nonchalant.

Dean winces. He bites back the instinct to explain how he wouldn’t have agreed to going out had he known. They would have ordered takeout from some podunk dive, dug into greasy cartons of chinese instead. Going out, like this, it’s too—much. Implications. Expectations. Ideas unburied, ones better left for dead.

Dean casts around, begging for a lifeline, and now that he’s looking, all the other tables—the men and women, the seniors and pimply kids around them—they’re all _couples_ , dynamic duos across the board, save for a booth of four teens tucked in the corner, feeding quarters into the jukebox, sharing milkshakes like some cheesy double date. Everybody’s doing the same thing here except them.

Dean’s pulse picks up, hammers the idea home. Shit. Shit shit shit.

“We have to go,” Dean blurts, grabbing his jacket.

Cas opens his mouth, a slight frown forming, just as a bored-looking waitress rolls by. She draws a notebook from her apron and a pencil out from her hair. With minimal enthusiasm she sighs, braces herself, and says, “Your order?”

Dean’s shaking his head, telling her not to bother, when Cas lifts the edges of his placemat menu, examining it like ancient scripture, and says, “What are your specials?”

So Dean’s gonna kill him. That’s how this ends.

The waitress recites the details of the Texas ribeye with _potato gratin and haricot verts_ instead of the usual scalloped potatoes and green beans. “Because, y’know.” She waves limply at the decor. “Fancy.”

Dean doesn’t like the way her gaze slides between them, bored but with a burgeoning curiosity, like the clammy guy and his maybe-boyfriend are the most intriguing guests she’s seen all night. Could be, for all he knows; small town sensibilities and all that. Dean’s feeling sweaty and confrontational, on the verge of saying something stupid, but then his cell phone pings and suddenly he’s not catching a word.

The screen’s bright with a text from Sam. Two succinct lines, spelling out that he’s alright and heading back. Dean fires back a _fuck you for worrying me_ , sugarcoating the worst of it by tacking on a question about how it went.

“Sir?” the waitress says, voice plunging like a dropped knife.

Dean glances up, eyes round, before he cottons onto a reply. “Burger,” he blurts. “Cheese and bacon. Fries. Medium rare.”

“The same,” Cas says, tipping his head to her. He holds the placemat out to like she’s going to want it. She takes a corner between two fingers and carefully drags it away.

Dean’s mat is slightly less than salvageable, having already been shredded like some shitty paper salad. Cas scoops the pile away from Dean before he can go full-confetti on it so, with want of a thing to destroy Dean returns to his phone, hoping his idiot brother might’ve bothered sending another reply. Pinning his hopes on further feedback is a rookie move, but there has to be an excuse somewhere out there that will give them a reason to leave. Dean has to believe that’s the case.

“What did Sam say?” Cas asks, staring at Dean’s hands.

Dean shakes his head. He dims his phone and taps it against the table. “Nothing. He’ll be a while yet.”

“Ah.” Cas nods sagely. His fingers sift through the pieces of the placemat, puffing it into a fluffy pile.

Dean can’t think of anything further to say. They are suddenly, rapidly, alone.

Dean shifts his hands along the table, fingers following the beat of the jukebox. He rearranges his glass of water, unwinds the bundle of cutlery. He grabs his phone again, but Sam’s left him on read and there’s no indication whether he’s going to get a reply, and the second Dean sets it down, Cas slides the phone closer to his half of the table. Not so far that Dean feels skittish, but enough that the impulse to constantly check it might finally die.

So Dean reaches for the condiment caddie, pulling sugar packets out from beneath an enlarged pink heart, hoping to busy his hands. The damn decor gives him a papercut, naturally; Dean tears the heart away from the napkin dispenser and crushes it in his fist. “Why does this shit all have to be pink?” he grumbles, tossing it aside.

The wadded-up heart bounces across the formica, hitting Cas’ arm before skidding off the edge. Cas follows its trajectory to the seat beside him, one brow raised, unimpressed. “The color represents compassion, Dean. Friendship. Affection. Understanding.” Cas plucks up the fallen heart, cups it gently in his hand. His thumb works over its crumpled edge. “Unconditional love. It’s a worthy enough sentiment.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his neck, struggling for what else to say. “It’s just stupid,” he adds, gesturing at the balloons and ribbons, the fake little cupids hanging from the windows. “The day’s an excuse to sell cards and candy, or to make people desperate for relationships no matter how shitty.”

“How bold of you to say.” Cas rolls his eyes.

“Just telling the truth.” Dean shrugs. “No sense behind it beyond money and loneliness, y’know? They even named it after the saint of plagues.”

“And beekeepers,” Cas says quietly.

Oh, God. Dean wipes at his face. He might as well dig his own grave.

“I only mean.” Dean huffs, abortive. He knuckles his eyes and tries desperately to grasp onto whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish here, if that’s anything at all.

Cas watches him patiently, but then, Cas is always too patient with him. If their spots were swapped Dean wouldn’t manage half as well, and certainly not for the likes of Dean.

“It’s supposed to be about romance,” Dean says finally, scraping his hand down his face, settling the subject with a resigned thump to the table. “It’s corrupt and stupid and it’s supposed to be about love, but most people can’t even manage to fake that.”

“I don’t disagree. But it’s disappointing.” Cas sighs and Dean frowns, so Cas shrugs again, uncertain. The paper heart slowly regains its shape in his hands. “That humans have diluted the intent of this day. The premise at least is pleasant—a day celebrating those you love. Haven’t you ever wanted something like that?”

Dean shrugs, awkward this time. “Maybe. Once.”

“Once?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s been a while since—I mean, the lives we lead don’t exactly leave room for romance, y’know?” Dean chuckles, caught by a sudden memory. “But there was this one night, a lot of years back, when I was young and stupid and just as bad with a calendar. Nice girl, a little wild. Parted ways the day after, only to have her burn through my prepaid expecting me to come back.” He bows his head, embarrassed. “Turns out hooking up on the 13th sets expectations—who knew, right?”

Cas spares him a wry look, though his smile curls a little sad.

Dean coughs. He takes a sip of water. “So what about you? Any Valentine’s horror stories?” he asks, though the look Cas gives makes Dean wish he could take it back. Considering how their last Valentine’s involved the shitstorm that was Famine, they shouldn’t really get into it, even if it’s clear that Cas now is thinking about it too. “I mean. Girls. Dating. That kind of stuff.”

“No,” Cas says. “Tonight is the closest I’ve come to having a date in its traditional sense.” Cas’ eyes crinkle, his mouth lilting into a soft pink line. “It seems all of my contemporary experiences have been with you.”

Dean bows his head. His face burns and he knows it; he can feel the color on his cheeks even as he tries to hide it by taking another drink. “Well shucks, Cas, I think you’re swell too.”

It’s a dumb line but Dean can’t regret it, not when it makes Cas’ soft smile grow wider, his gaze dropping too, like he’s shamefully fond of the idiot in his care.

The look of Cas right now, of the highlights in his hair and the creases around his eyes, pulls something hot and fierce up Dean’s throat, a feeling so thick it catches and spreads at the base of his neck. He wishes he had more placemat to shred, but Cas has the tattered remnants spread around him, fanned out like a mosaic. Dean watches his fingers shift and slide the fragments, working their way around the table.

It’s a bearable silence, but still, Dean’s stupidly grateful when the waitress comes by with their meals. She sets down two steaming plates, and the smell of the burger hits Dean so suddenly that his stomach loudly growls. It’s as good a distraction as any so Dean digs in, filling his face in an excuse to stop bumbling his way through further conversation.

Cas plays his part by picking over his fries. Dean hunches over his plate, chewing ravenously, but he slows when he ends up watching Cas eat instead. Cas plucks up each fry individually, fingers perched on each like a pencil. Dean watches Cas nibble and slowly chew, like he’s determined to enjoy it. Watches Cas as closes his eyes, trying his damnedest to savor the taste.

Cas looks up eventually, finds Dean staring. He casts around for the waitress and, after determining no one is watching, shifts his fries onto Dean’s plate. Dean shakes his head but accepts the offering, wolfing down his second serving with as much enthusiasm as the first.

The waitress comes by with refills, and gathers up Dean’s decimated plate. She quirks a look at Cas’ untouched burger. “Doggy bag?”

Cas nods solemnly. “Please.”

“Dessert too?” She glances to Dean. “We have a sweetheart’s special on pie tonight, two slices of strawberry for the price of one.”

Dean has already pushed himself just past the point of comfortably satiated, but it’s not in him to pass on free pie. With a burst of brazen swagger, he leans across the table and says with a wink, “What do you say, sweetheart? Got room for a slice?”

Cas squints, but he knows Dean well enough to recognize the game. He lays a hand atop Dean’s and replies, “Whatever you want, honey bunny.”

Dean damn near chokes on his spit.

The pie turns out to be one of the fancier, open-faced kinds, where the strawberries are so well-glazed they glow like rubies, nestled stem-side down in a fluffy white mousse and drizzled with white chocolate. The _sweethearts_ part of the deal reveals itself by the fact the slices arrive on one plate with a fork to share. Not the worst thing to happen when one of the involved parties technically doesn’t eat, so Dean digs in like usual, though guilt strikes when he doesn’t notice Cas eyeing the dish mournfully, at least until he’s partway through the second slice.

Dean nudges the plate into the neutral zone between them. He flips around the fork, tilts his eyebrows up.

Cas takes the utensil from him, his long fingers on display. He skewers a single strawberry, drawing it out with a curl of mousse, and surveys it from all sides before taking a bite, chewing slowly, with a degree of concentration that thrums in Dean’s chest. Cas then nods, humming his enjoyment, and finishes the rest of the berry. He sets the fork back on the plate.

The corner of Dean’s mouth lilts without his say-so. He has to clear his throat so his voice won’t break. “So. More or less like molecules?”

“Less,” Cas says with finality, pushing the pie back to him. “Thank you,” he adds, quiet.

Dean nods, taking back the fork. He feels a little funny for using it after Cas.

The teens in the corner cleared out sometime in the evening, leaving the jukebox open. Whoever’s picking the playlist now favors the classics, leaning on the slow and bluesy, marking time with its gentle sway. Whatever the tune, Cas seems to enjoy it. He hums along, glancing around at the remaining couples, his smile soft. Dean thinks he looks content, somehow. Like this is enough for him.

Dean scrapes his fork over the plate, tapping gently along with the rhythm. He drops his hands and plays with the pieces of the placemat, which seems to draw Cas’ gaze back to him.

They’re quiet, just a moment. Just an idle beat where time doesn’t have a say. Then Cas begins picking at the tattered placement too.

“Dean? The name, sweetheart…” Cas clams up, frowning at himself.

Dean waits for him to rephrase, his heart pounding loudly for no reason.

“The terms people choose for each other,” Cas continues haltingly, “how do you come up with them?”

“The me-you, or the people-you?”

“People-you,” Cas replies, nodding seriously.

Dean eyes Cas, curious why he’s curious. He’s tempted to tease him, but unless the lights are tricking him Cas’ ears are looking a little pink right now. Dean errs on being gentle with him, and answers honestly instead. “It’s just random words. Baby noises and soft-sounding shit, y’know? Lots about food. Animals. Stupid shit like that.”

Cas hums, nodding. Softly, he says, “Well, thank you, hotdog special.”

Dean hangs there, unmoving.

Cas flips the piece of placemat between his fingers, holding it out for Dean to read. Only the smallest twitch of his mouth betrays him.

There, in bold serif, reads _Hotdog Special_.

Dean brays.

“So it’s good?” Cas asks, leaning in, smiling through Dean’s laughter.

Wiping his eyes, Dean shakes his head. “I dunno, are you sure that’s the one you’re going with? I mean there’s—” Dean flips through the pieces for a good response. “Chicken parmigiana? Disco fries? So many classy choices, Cas. Don’t tell me you’ll choose just one.”

“I’ll defer to your expertise,” Cas says, grinning so wide that Dean can’t remember the last time Cas looked this bright.

Sighing, still smiling, Dean pulls out his wallet, tapping it against his thigh. He waves off Cas’ offer to pay and excuses himself for the till. Their waitress awaits, her elbows perched on the service counter, and when Dean tosses his substantial change into the tip jar, she thanks him for his donation during these trying times.

Cas comes up to him, holds out his jacket. Dean slips it on and takes his phone when Cas passes it to him, checking it as an afterthought. Dean waves Cas out the door ahead of him, his mouth lifting at the sight of Cas carrying the clamshell of leftovers with both of his hands.

The parking lot has cleared out, and snow is gently falling, crunching underfoot. They cut a line to the Impala, kick clean their shoes and climb inside. The windows have frosted over, so Dean turns the key and waits for her to catch her breath. They sit quietly, the radio humming between them, before Dean makes the shift and brings them back to the motel.

When they get there, Dean parks, waiting a moment before following Cas out. The night has been… all over the place, because of him. But Cas—Cas was steady. He was saying something. Doing something. By bringing Dean out like this.

“Hey.” Dean catches up to Cas across the parking lot, bumping his shoulder with his own. “Thanks for suggesting we go out. It was fun.”

Cas hums. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it, stud muffin.”

Dean laughs, rolling his eyes. “You too, sunshine. But how ‘bout you warn me next time you want to go on a date?”

Cas pauses at the motel door. “Next time?”

Dean raises his brows. “So you’re admitting it was a date?” He tsks. “Gotta say, man, your game is pretty weak if so.”

Dean slides out the room key, twisting it in the lock.

Cas musters a shaky breath and says, “Would you like it to be stronger?”

Dean stills, his hand falling from the key. He glances to Cas, the mood between them suddenly serious. Cas looks as solemn as ever, but Dean’s known him long enough to spy the tremor that hides beneath his implacable expression.

Cas breathes in, canting toward him, his gaze shifting over Dean’s face. Dean reaches out between them, catching the small hitch in Cas as he does, the anticipation that shifts and falls when Dean merely takes the clamshell out from Cas’ hands.

Without the distraction, Cas’ hands clench nervously upon themselves. His thumb runs the line of his knuckles, hanging stiff at his sides.

Dean leans against the door, faking for casual. Pulse pounding, he murmurs, “You gonna make a move, babe?”

Cas tilts his head. His attention, already so strong and singular, hones to a razor-sharp edge. He steps in, unbowed. Unlike anything else in nature. Takes the collar of Dean’s jacket in both hands and tugs him in.

Dean moves; he follows the course Cas sets for him, gliding through the arc put into motion when Cas’ body first reached out to his. It’s almost too easy, the way they align, tilting their heads just so. Cas runs his hand to the back of Dean’s neck, fingers fitting snugly against the tendons, and Dean melts into it, taking a final breath before Cas slots their mouths together.

He’s warm. Chapped, and soft. Dean closes his eyes, soaks in the heat radiating off of him, the curl of Cas’ thumb upon his ear. The low breath that snags in the back of his throat as Cas pulls back, nosing Dean’s cheek before kissing him again.

It’s been a long time coming, whatever this is. Dean would keep at this forever, if they could, his hand on Cas’ hip, snowflakes gathering on the crown of Cas’ hair. In a perfect world they would continue on this way, finding each other in the soft slide of mouths and gasps for breath. But as it stands the doorknob jiggles, and the motel door swings open, revealing an exhausted-looking Sam.

“Hey,” Sam says, scrubbing at his eyes, the sleepy motion the only thing saving him from an eyeful of something else. “I heard the door. You guys coming in?”

Dean steps back, drops his hand. Exhales a plume of steam. He looks to Cas, who looks as shell-shocked as Dean feels, lips parted, swollen. He’s so damn kissable that Dean reacts on instinct, firing out at Sam, smacking his brother back into the room. “Damnit, Sam, do you even have your phone? When the hell’d you get back?”

Sam stumbles, frowning as he rights himself. “Didn’t know you’d be going out,” he grumbles, looking between them, suspicion growing as his consciousness returns.

“Didn’t know supper was a crime,” Dean retorts. He swats Sam again before he can get any ideas, then pushes the leftovers at him for good measure. Sam rolls his eyes but takes the burger to the mini-fridge, which leaves Dean a spare second alone with Cas.

It’s a mistake, looking at him, seeing the want in Cas so raw and open, those blue eyes laying him bare. The look Dean gives in return is anything but subtle; that thick feeling rises in his chest again, so fierce Dean could choke on it. He has to glance away.

Dean clears his throat. Scratches his face. “Hey. Uh.”

Sam looks to him. He folds his arms across his chest, his befuddlement building, and God, there’s nothing Dean can say that won’t give it all away.

“I’m gonna.” Dean coughs dryly, flagging his hand. He turns on his heel, waving for Cas. “We’re gonna get another room. Just—text. In the morning. Don’t—just call when you’re ready to go. Okay?”

“Dean, what—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean snaps, too loud for the room. He grabs his bag, throws in the belongings he’d already unpacked, and tucks the whole mess over his shoulder. “Just go the fuck to bed, Sammy.”

Without waiting for a reply, Dean grabs Cas and wheels them out the door.

“That was subtle,” Cas murmurs, once they’re out in the snow again.

Dean shakes his head. His face burns even hotter out here in the cold. “Could’ve been worse,” he grumbles, feathers ruffled, but Cas’ small grin soothes the worst of his nerves.

Cas falls into place beside him, hands in his coat pockets, tucked up against Dean’s side. Dean takes the excuse to wrap an arm around him, the promise of the evening together building like a heady stout in his mind.

Dean jolts suddenly. “It’s okay, the second room? Or is that something that only comes after steak and potato gratin?”

Cas rolls his eyes, bumps his hip. “Does it look like I’m bothered?”

Dean scoffs. “Sorry for double-checking, angel face.”

“You’re forgiven, nacho balls.”

“Goddamnit, Cas,” Dean laughs, scrubbing his face. He hip-checks Cas harder in return.

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/170858692123/keep-the-lovelight-glowing).
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
